Mrs. Krumm, the official cook of the Forks County Jail, sat in the corner, another cigarette in her mouth and a disposable lighter in one of her hands, trying to bring those two things together despite the constant shivering to which her advanced age, nervous disposition, and incredible nicotine consumption made her liable. Mrs. Krumm wanted to retire from this job and probably should have a long time ago, but she needed the money, and so she clung to the work as if it were the last carton of Virginia Slims on the face of the earth. Whenever Clyde was assigned to jail duty—increasingly often, since it was considered the worst of all duties—it was evident to him that Mrs. Krumm was just not physically capable of doing the work.
Clyde should have been thinking about the sheriff campaign, but there was not much to think about there. His bumper stickers had all long since fallen off and blown away to Illinois, or else washed down into storm drains and formed a new variegated red-and-white lining for the regional sewer system. He had it on good authority that raccoons and other midsize animals were lining their nests with “Vote Banks” bumper stickers. The only thing left was the doorbell-ringing campaign. Whether or not this was useless, Clyde was determined to see it through to the bitter end.
So the campaign did not occupy his mind anymore, except that he would visualize the next block of houses or row of apartments in Wapsipinicon that he would visit when his shift was over. He was much more inclined to ponder the recent events in Kuwait.
For about a week the whole invasion business had been just another conversation starter for use in coffee shops and convenience stores, a welcome respite from many years of talking about the weather or the condition of the old one-lane bridges on County Road E505.
For Clyde, however, the war had suddenly come much closer to home this morning, over breakfast, when Desiree had made some passing mention of calling up the reserves.
Desiree had been in the Army Reserve for several years. She gave them a weekend a month and an annual two-week stint; they sent along a check; and that was that.
But now it sounded as if it might be a hell of a lot more than that.
It was inconceivable that they would need to call up the reserves to deal with a piddly-shit country like Iraq. But they said on the news that Iraq had the fourth-largest military in the world. The U.S. Army, accustomed to facing down the Soviets in Europe, could surely handle even the fourth-largest military with one hand tied behind its back. But they said on the news that the military was short in several key areas—such as medical personnel. Clyde’s mind had been seesawing crazily back and forth like this all day long.
They couldn’t possibly call up the mother of a little baby.
Why not? They called up fathers of little babies all the time.
The potatoes were burning; the prisoners had smelled their lunch going up the chimney and set up enough pandemonium to be heard even under the range hood. Clyde grasped the handle of the frying pan with both hands, swung it around, and dumped the potatoes into a huge stainless-steel serving bowl.
When Clyde turned around, he was startled to see another person in the room—a tall black man, stoutly constructed but not overweight, wearing a suit with a very clean, heavily starched white shirt.
“Deputy Banks? Marcus Berry, special agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation,” the visitor said, holding out a business card. Clyde accepted it and shook Berry’s hand. For a moment he was confused; he irrationally thought that this had something to do with Desiree, that the government had sent this man out to take her away. That made no sense at all, but the notion of it shook him up anyway.
“Wanted to talk to you about the horse mutilation,” Berry said, “if you have a minute.”
“Mrs. Krumm, would you mind serving the prisoners lunch?” Clyde said.
Mrs. Krumm gathered up her lighter and cigarettes, pulled herself to her feet with a deep sigh, and got to work.
“I’ve been over your report,” Berry said. He was all business, which impressed Clyde favorably. It would have been common for a black man in Berry’s position to spend a while shooting the breeze, talking about the prospects for the Twisters’ football season and so forth, on the assumption that the brain of a Nishnabotnan would still be reeling from the shock of actually having seen a black person and would need several minutes to get back into some kind of decent working order. But Berry gave Clyde a bit more credit than that. “I hope you don’t mind my saying this,” he continued, “but usually I hate reading reports by local deputies and small-town cops.”
Clyde nodded, having read a few himself. Many fine human beings worked in local law enforcement, but Sir Arthur Conan Doyle they were not.
“Your report on the Sweet Corn incident was impeccable,” Berry said. “You’ve got my vote come November.”
“Thanks,” Clyde said. “Don’t recall knocking on your door yet, but I guess I’ll cross your name off the list.”